Then It Was June

By Peter Bowden

It was the last night of May, and the fields breathed a warm, sweet sigh beneath the stars. The tall grass whispered against itself, and the wildflowers—painted in yellow, orange, and blue—leaned into the breeze like they knew a secret. A girl sat barefoot in the clearing, knees pulled to her chest, her wings soft as dandelion threads catching the moonlight. She didn’t speak. Fairies rarely did when magic was near.

All around her, the air began to shimmer, not with heat but with something older. Fireflies blinked in quiet rhythm, like they’d rehearsed this dance a thousand times. The wind changed, just enough to carry the smell of honeysuckle and the first breath of June. And though no clock struck, the moment arrived—subtle, sure—as if the world had taken a breath and exhaled into a new name.

She rose without a sound, trailing light behind her, and touched the petals of a daisy now fully bloomed. Behind her, the woods stirred with creatures waking from dreams and the hush of something finished. And though no one marked the time, the girl knew what had passed. May had gone. And June, dressed in gold and dew, had stepped gently into the world.

For those who still believe in quiet magic, and in the turning of the world beneath moonlight and wildflowers.


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